


maybe in another universe

by edelwoodsouls



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chronicles of Narnia Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Gen, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, World War II, basira gets a bow, jon gets depression, martin gets a knife, melanie gets a sword, no era-typical queerphobia/racism bcos its my fic and i make the rules, you dont need to know much really about narnia to enjoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29769246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edelwoodsouls/pseuds/edelwoodsouls
Summary: With bombs falling on London, Jon is evacuated to the countryside. Not the worst thing to happen, except he has to live with three other kids - including Melanie King, his old romantic rival, and Martin Blackwood, his rival in everything else.It's looking to be an awful summer, until they discover a new, magical world in the upstairs wardrobe - and a whole new war that expects them to fight, and die, for the cause.[or: the Narnia AU my brainrot manifested at 3am]
Relationships: Basira Hussain & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Melanie King & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	maybe in another universe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miachaostamsyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miachaostamsyn/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the amount of ww2 trivia i recall from year 5 history class truly astounds me  
> //  
> the tags should give u an idea of who's who in this au o_O  
> //  
> cw: discussions of war/bombing/evacuation

As the train leaves the station, Jon doesn't look back.

The corridors outside his carriage are filled with other kids, craning their necks out of the windows to wave at their parents, tears streaming down their faces. It's a mess of loud noise and emotion that makes Jon wholly uncomfortable.

There's no one for him to look back to, no one to share tears with. No one to yell at him, _you'll be home before you know it!_ and _have fun, dear! it's okay!_

He curls his arms around his suitcase and stares out the opposite window, at the vanishing buildings. Smoke shimmers over the horizon, mixing with the clouds, and Jon tries to imagine the view from above. When the planes fly overhead, do they recognise the smothered lights flickering below? Do they spare a thought for the bodies on the other side of the flames?

The corners of his suitcase begin to dig painfully into his skin.

Before he can spiral any further, the door to the compartment rattles open with a sudden gunshot sound that sets every nerve in his body alight.

He flinches and turns to see a girl roughly his own age, head swathed in a dark blue hijab, pressing her lips in an apologetic line.

"Sorry," she shrugs noncommittally, inclining her head. "Is that seat taken?"

"Uh, no."

"So I can take it?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks." She shoulders her way into the room, heaving her own suitcase up onto the rack above their heads with an easy movement. Jon grips his own sheepishly - several blows to the head have taught him that he is nowhere near strong enough to haul it up that high.

The girl settles into the seat opposite him, retrieves a book from the recesses of her thick navy trench coat. It's a weathered copy of _The_ _Iliad_ , well-thumbed and annotated.

He's leaning forward curiously before he can help himself.

The girl looks up with raised eyebrows. "Nosy much?"

"Sorry," he shrinks back behind the large bulk in his lap. "I just- I used to have that same copy. Before..."

The girl's face softens, infinitessimly. "It's one of my favourites," she offers, almost apologetically. "I started keeping all my books in the shelter a few months ago. It's the only reason this survived."

Jon says nothing - there's nothing he can really say. In this moment, they are just two strangers, sharing a burning world.

"I'm Basira," the girl says, with a decisive look. "I'm from Finchley, being evacuated to Dorset. You?"

"Uh- same," Jon blinks, surprised. "I'm Jon. I've- I've never seen you before?"

"I mean, I imagine you go to the boys' school."

"Not until last year."

"Oh."

Jon glances down at his hands, hoping Basira can't see the way his fingers are white-knuckled against his suitcase.

"Well, I was new before-" she waves her arms vaguely, "all this. Home-schooled. So not really surprising."

"Oh." Slowly, one by one, Jon allows his muscles to relax. "That must've been nice. Quiet."

"That's one word for it," Basira mutters in a way that implies a hundred other meanings than _nice_. "I was really looking forward to actually getting to _know_ people, y'know? _New_ people, my own age."

"Well, you know me now?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do."

Jon tries for a smile, but it comes out as something more of a grimace. All the same, Basira seems to get the sentiment, and returns it.

* * *

Martin hates trains.

In theory, they're the perfect vessel. Hours of uninterrupted time, the world moving beneath your feet as you curl into a seat with a hot cup of tea and your favourite paperback.

But he hasn't been on a train since his mother sent him away to London, and that sort of memory tends to leave one with a distaste by association.

Now here he is, only a few years later, being sent away again.

He's just glad his mother refused to take him in. He's not sure he could bear going back to that house, potentially indefintiely.

All the same, he's trying to make the best out of the journey that he can. He's heard horror stories of other evacuees, forced to work on farms or taken in only to be used for their ration cards. If that's the sort of fate he's headed for, he'll take the luxury of a nice cuppa and the drafting of a few poems whilst it's still there.

And he really is in the perfect place for it. The smouldering London skyline behind him, the fathomless countryside ahead. A world in flux and chaos, defined in fire and water.

He notes that down in his journal.

"Any good thoughts?" Melanie asks through a mouthful of sandwich.

Martin blinks up at the girl sharing his compartment, an embodiment of chaos if ever he's seen one. She's lying across the seats opposite him, her suitcase open and contents strewn everywhere - she'd been digging through it to find something inane which turned out to be in her pocket the whole time, and hasn't bothered to pack it up again.

Martin's hands itch to tidy the space - instead he grips his pen a little too hard and settles for a quzzical smile.

"Your writing," she points with the corner of her sandwich. "You look very _deep in concentration_ and _dramatic_. Any good thoughts?"

"I suppose," he shrugs, retreating somewhat under Melanie's energetic gaze. "Something about dichotomies. Peace and war, fire and water. City and country."

"Men and women, nurse and soldier. Alive and dead."

Martin raises an eyebrow. "I guess."

"Hey- if there's any time to be morbid, it's during a war, dontcha think?"

"True. Do you write?"

"Nope. I do photography, though."

Martin can feel himself getting interested despite himself. "Really? Do you have a camera?"

Melanie nudges at the pile of clothes somehow still heaped in the boundaries of her suitcase, revealing the packaging of a beautiful, sleek camera piece that makes Martin fall a little in love with this stranger instantly.

"Is that a _Retina I_?" he asks, unable to quite keep the awe out of his voice.

"You really know your tech," Melanie says approvingly. "Yeah, it is. I'm going to be a supernaturalist."

"A what?"

"A _supernaturalist_ , Martin. I'm going to be the first person to _prove_ that ghosts exist. I'm going to get one on film."

"Huh."

Martin deliberately avoids Melanie's eyes. To believe in the supernatural is not generally approved of, let alone to talk about it with the sudden reverence and _conviction_ that have crept into Melanie's voice.

He's gotten very used to pretending he's never seen anything out of the ordinary. The smoke that follows him around like a shadow, the spiders that seem to understand him just a little too intelligently - they all have mundane explanations.

He's never met someone so open about such things.

He lasts a matter of seconds before his tongue gets the better of him. "What've you seen?"

Melanie grins, as if she's been waiting from the moment they met just for him to ask. "I got shot by a ghost."

Martin almost knocks over his tea. "I'm _sorry_?"

"I got _shot_ by a _ghost_."

"Yeah, you said that already. What I meant to say was, _what the fuck_?"

Melanie looks delighted to have his attention. She reaches down and rolls her sock to her ankle, revealing a garish red scar screaming across her leg. "London's _full_ of ghosts, if you hadn't noticed. They just love the chaos that's going on right now, always wandering all over the place when the streets are empty and everyone's hidden in their shelters."

"I'm guessing you're not one for shelters," Martin says dryly, attempting to smother the sheer confusion and excitement doing battle in his brain.

"Of course not," Melanie scoffs. "They won't let me enlist because I'm a _girl_ , but, I mean, have you _seen_ some of the boys in charge of Finchley's bomb clearance?"

"A lot of them were in the year above me at school," Martin nods. He could say far more bitter things, but he keeps his mouth shut.

"They're kids, just like us," Melanie nods, a furious look in her eyes. "I wouldn't trust them to protect me from a particularly vicious duck, let alone the end of days raining from the sky."

Martin grins in agreement. Despite initial perceptions, he's starting to like Melanie a lot.

A shame they'll only get to know each other for this one train ride, likely never to hear from each other again. Unless Melanie does actually become famous for photographing ghosts, and he becomes famous for his poetry, and maybe they'll meet at a gala sixty years from now and not recognise each other at all.

Martin mentally kicks himself out of that particular spiral. He's always had a problem with melancholy, and the world being on fire has hardly done anything to improve him.

He's convinced it's what makes him a good poet.

"Hey," he says, to distract himself. "Where are you being sent to?"

"Some professor," Melanie shrugs. "Probably a stuffy old bat who'll put you to work if she finds a single fingerprint in the dust. Academics are all the same, from what I've seen."

Martin looks down at his own tag, brown paper tied with fraying string, looped around his neck by a disinterested attendant at the posting office. He hasn't actually had the nerve to read the name yet.

His heart picks up. "Melanie... it's not Professor Gertrude Robinson, is it?"

* * *

" _...But Patroclus called to his comrades with a loud shout: “Myrmidons, ye comrades of Achilles, son of Peleus, be men, my friends, and bethink you of furious valour, to the end that we may win honour for the son of Peleus, that is far the best of the Argives by the ships, himself and his squires that fight in close combat; and that the son of Atreus, wide-ruling Agamemnon, may know his blindness in that he honoured not at all the best of the Achaeans-_ "

"Achilles is such an idiot," Basira interrupts, rolling her eyes and flipping the coin in her palm in absent, distracted movements.

Jon raises an eyebrow and lowers the book. "I can stop, if you'd prefer."

"No, no, you're okay. You've got a surprisingly good voice for this stuff. I'm glad you suggested it."

They've been taking turns reading aloud, switching out every few pages to pass the time, since Jon has no books of his own. But Basira seems to have quickly decided that Jon is a _born narrator_ and delegated all further reading to him.

He's been glowing faintly from the praise ever since.

The journey has flown by - as time often does when Jon's hyperfixations make an appearance - but for once he doesn't feel guilty about indulging it. Basira seems just as fascinated, somehow, and he greatly enjoys her interruptions.

"You don't think Achilles is an idiot?" she asks, crossing her legs and leaning forward intently.

"No, I definitely do- he sends his boyfriend out to fight a war he isn't prepared for just because of a _grudge_ and then throws a tantrum when that hubris gets him killed. He's definitely an idiot."

"Oh good," Basira sighs. "For a moment there I thought we were going to have to argue."

Jon laughs, and the sound comes easier than it has in a while. This realisation crawls under his skin, cutting the sound short. He looks out of the window for some semblance of escape-

"Hey! Look!" He points out at the approaching train station, a quaint thing, barely more than a slab of stone emerging from a field. But the sign, rusted as it is, reads the same as the looping handwriting on the label around his neck does.

"Oh joy," Basira sighs. "Countryside air and a new family who'll probably hate me."

"Where are you being sent?" Jon asks, more hopeful than he's willing to admit. "Maybe we'll be neighbours."

"The household of Professor Gertrude Robinson," she reads from her own label.

"So am I!" Jon's heart leaps high in his chest despite himself. "You know, if we're with a professor, she might- I mean, she probably isn't a rough work kind of person- so maybe... this won't be so awful after all?"

Of course, Jon has always had a habit of speaking too soon.

* * *

Gathering Melanie's discarded belongings is a predictably chaotic affair, but she executes it with the practiced air of someone who lives that way every day.

Martin can't decide whether he's excited or dreading living with this girl.

As soon as they sprawl out onto the platform with seconds to spare, Martin realises that Melanie's mess is the least of his worries.

Because perched on the station's only bench, face knitted into his iconic perpetual frown, eyes squinting against the sun, is Jonathan _fucking_ Sims.

Next to his suitcase, and wearing a knitted jumper several sizes too big, he looks tiny. The tall hijabi girl standing on top of the bench, looking searchingly into the distant fields, only serves to exaggerate this.

Melanie notices the sudden drain in his skin immediately, and follows his gaze. "For _fucks_ _sake_."

"You know him?" Martin asks faintly, resisting the urge to brush his hands through his hair, or smooth his clothes. Jon doesn't _care_ what he looks like, doesn't care about _him_. He should've learnt back in primary school that being rivals isn't something to be romanticised.

But his heart doesn't seem to get the message as a stray gust of wind dances in Jon's dark hair, and it skips a beat.

"Do I know Jonathan _fucking_ Sims?" Melanie grits out, heaving her suitcase roughly over one shoulder. "That guy is such a wanker. ' _Ghosts are for idiots, Melanie_. _Just a romantic ideal made up by delusional people afraid of the dark_.'"

"He's not that bad," Martin begins to protest before he can stop himself, "he's just been through a lot."

"Doesn't excuse him being a dick," Melanie grumbles. "Not to mention he used to date my girlfriend. Always having a disaster and blazing back into her life. What I wouldn't give for five minutes one on one, I'd teach him..."

Melanie goes on muttering under her breath, but Martin barely hears, because Jon has just met his eyes and nothing else in the world matters. There's surprise, then panic, before his expression settles back into a frown.

Martin sighs. It's not as if he should've expected anything else.

"Come on," he says to Melanie, picking up his suitcase. "We'd better get it over with."

The walk to close their distance seems to take hours, and somehow no time at all.

"Martin," Jon greets him with a clipped, emotionless tone.

"Hey, Jon," Martin smiles, refusing to let the other boy's walls get him down. "And you are?"

"Basira," the girl nods, still standing high above them and glancing distractedly towards the dirt path, likely looking for whoever will be along to pick up evacuees. "I guess you guys already know each other?"

"They go to school together," Melanie brushes off the explanation, before introducing herself, too. "Now we're all acquainted, how long before we never have to see each other again?"

Basira's eyes flick silently between the three of them, clearly noting the tension, but saying nothing.

"We're in the same house," Jon says stiffly. "I don't know about you two. I'm sure there are other benches you can loiter at."

"Well _we're_ in the same house," Melanie shoots back, linking her arm with Martin and holding tight. She's a lot stronger than she looks.

An awful thought dawns on Martin, quickly encompassing and eclipsing anything else. "Where..." he swallows around his dry throat, "who are you guys with?"

Martin watches as Jon's eyes widen. Glance down at his own label, across at theirs, and back.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me."

Martin wants to burrow into the ground and hide somewhere his blushing cheeks could never be seen. He shouldn't be surprised, really. This summer was already looking down, being far from London, living with strangers, adjusting to pretending to be whatever fit in most.

Living with the crush who hates his guts is somehow the only escalation that makes sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the two types of gay: obsessed with classics, and obsessed with ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr [@edelwoodsouls](https://edelwoodsouls.tumblr.com), im always around to chat :D


End file.
